


At the End of the World

by moonside



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Depression, Eventual Smut, Everyone Has Issues, Exploring a post-apocalyptic world, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Shrunkyclunks, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Strangers to Lovers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, because endgame failed us, lots of good doggos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonside/pseuds/moonside
Summary: Bucky Barnes: self-proclaimed professional dog walker at the end of the world, therapy optional. He knows that people don't just hire him to walk their dogs. Everyone's lost someone, and he's lost more than most. He's down an arm and an entire family, and he likes to listen. Makes him feel like he's not a total waste of space.When he decides, on a whim, to maybe go to group therapy, to maybe face his own problems, he doesn't expect it to be headed by Captain America. Bucky thought his own issues were bad--at least he's not living with the failure of the entire universe on his shoulders.But, hey. He likes to listen. And maybe he can help.





	1. Chapter 1

Growing up, Bucky Barnes always liked the fourth of July. 

 

How could he not? 

 

Part of being from a large family means, of course, that the holidays are an  _ ordeal.  _ Especially holidays that basically existed as an excuse for the entire extended Barnes family to cram into the family’s brownstone, to pile the table high until it’s ready to collapse. There’s always a mixture of the strangest food--classic American fare, various “salads” with way too much mayo, burgers and hotdogs, along with latkes, brisket, matzo balls--and to James Buchanan Barnes, nothing else feels quite so much like  _ home.  _

 

Growing up, there’s a warmth surrounding the day, and even though Bucky doesn’t consider himself very patriotic, he finds himself looking forward to it. The sky lights up bright with fireworks. When he’s small, his mother shoos him from the kitchen, but as he gets older, Bucky finds himself elbow-deep in baking in the days leading up to the celebrations. Winnifred Barnes loves to bake, and Bucky finds himself naturally talented at it. 

 

Surrounded by family, playing music and laughing, his favourite aunt sneaking him cans of beer until he’s tipsy and happy and warm-- those are Bucky’s favourite childhood memories. Hot summer nights, the entire extended family climbing the stairs to the rooftop balcony to watch the fireworks burn through the light pollution and bask everything in red and white and blue-- that’s how he wants to remember his childhood. 

 

Of course, Bucky grows up, and he joins the military for the cheap education. His family is large and loving and happy, but  _ rich,  _ they aren’t, and he’s the eldest of four. His three sisters have always come first. He’ll argue, after the fact, that he has no idea what gave him the idea. The unfortunate reality is that the war propaganda, painted with the face of his first teenage crush, Captain America, stares him down and gets into his head. 9/11 happened when he was young enough for it to make an impression. His grandpa was a war vet. It runs in the family. And, okay, he feels a bit obligated, all things considered. 

 

It won’t be so bad, he tells himself, but he’s never been patriotic, and it’s not quite as easy to love his country after he ships out. 

 

But even when he comes home from the war and loud noises make his whole body jump and tense, phantom pain shooting down his prosthetic arm, he still manages to let his sister Becca drag him to his parents’ house for the festivities. She shows up on July 2nd, like clockwork, to drag Bucky out of his apartment. She helps him pack a bag, the first year. 

 

She spends two hours cleaning his apartment for him, and even though she gives him a  _ look,  _ she doesn’t say anything. Bucky appreciates his sister more than anything--she’ll never give up on him, and he loves her for it, more than words could ever begin to express.

 

And once he’s at home, his mother gives him a long, lingering hug. Bucky ignores the tears shining wet at the corner of her eyes, and he ignores the own stinging, hot prick of his own eyes when he awkwardly throws his arms around her. The arm is still new enough that he feels awkward, off-balance. And  _ god,  _ he’s waiting for the pity, but it never rears its ugly face.

 

“Get into the kitchen. There’s lots to do,” Winnifred Barnes says instead, nudging Bucky into the direction of the large, bright family kitchen, and god, he’s  _ grateful.  _ It takes him a lot longer to knead the dough, his new prosthetic not entirely willing to cooperate, but nobody comments. 

 

And later that night, when the entire rest of the family makes their way up to the rooftop for the fireworks, Becca shows up in Bucky’s old childhood bedroom. She draws all the blankets off the bed. They pile the pillows on the floor. They drape blankets over the furniture - Bucky’s old school desk in one corner, his bed in the other, chairs and dressers pulled into the center of the room to make it all work.

 

There’s no real proper air conditioning in the house - the cheap window units can’t quite keep up with the invasive heat of the city in the peak of summer - but even though it’s hot and sweaty down there, Becca still curls up at his side. She runs her fingers through Bucky’s hair and reminisces about the good old days. And even though he’s a shaking, trembling mess at the reverberating sound of fireworks exploding in the sky, Bucky gets through it. 

 

His knuckles are white from gripping into the front of Becca’s shirt, and there’s a wet patch on her shoulder where his face is pressed. But he survives. 

 

“Doin’ great, Bucky-bear,” Becca says quietly, and it’s the only time they acknowledge,  _ really,  _ that this is hard. This is fucked up, and getting shipped off to war  _ broke  _ Bucky, but his sister is the glue holding him back together. Maybe there’s still hope. 

 

\---

 

He never used to have shit luck. 

 

Bucky’s alarm blares angrily in his ear, and he  _ jerks  _ awake. His legs are tangled in the sheets, soaked with sweat and reeking. His hair is matted to his face, and his cheeks are smeared with tears. There’s still a half-formed nightmare in the back of his mind. There’s the wet press of a cold nose into the palm of his flesh hand--his dog, Waffles, whines and licks at him. 

 

“I know, girl,” Bucky mumbles, his fingers twitching, hand flexing as he runs his fingers through her thick fur. 

  
That’s what he hates the most. It’s either insomnia or nightmares. On this particular night? He’d been staring the clock down until 3 AM, and of  _ course,  _ he has to be awake early. Of course, the nightmares are cloying, and instead of waking up screaming, he gets trapped in them. That’s the worst part-- being unable to snap out of it. He can still hear the screams, can still taste blood. 

 

At least it’s not the  _ other  _ nightmare, Bucky thinks, as he shakily pulls himself out of bed. At least it’s the old, familiar nightmare, and not the one that involves the sky dark, the sun blotted out with thick, ugly dust stirring in the atmosphere. Just the  _ thought  _ makes his tongue dry with the taste of stale ash. Yeah, it could be worse.

 

“C’mon. Breakfast. We got places to be,” Bucky says softly. Waffles jumps off the bed with a quiet  _ thump  _ and her nails click on the floor as she follows on his heel into the kitchen. Routine, routine, routine. In the back of his mind, Bucky thinks, he was never intended to be alone. Even when things seemed their darkest, he had his family, and now… 

 

Unimportant. Can’t change the past. At least he has Waffles, he thinks, making her do a trick for her breakfast. Bucky pours himself a bowl of cereal, does his best to keep his crummy little apartment clean (because it’s just him, and he has to), and then clips the leash on his dog and they’re off.

 

\---

 

Dog-walking isn’t exactly something Bucky ever saw himself doing, admittedly. He’s always loved animals, but… it’s not the most lucrative career. Prior to the world going to shit, he managed to hold a job at a local coffee shop. Becca had helped him get it--and somehow, Bucky found he was good at it. It’d been a spark of normalcy, realizing that he still knew how to put the charm on. He’d wear long sleeves and nobody would even  _ notice  _ the arm. Instead, he’d smile and flirt easily, and the tips combined with the disability he got from the VA let him live an almost-comfortable life. At the very least, his parents didn’t need to help. 

 

Then,  _ the world went to shit.  _ His coffee shop closed. His family-- well. 

 

And then he’d gotten Waffles, and here they are. Funny, how that works. Today, Bucky’s got five appointments. It’s not a busy day, but it’s an  _ early  _ one, his first one barely after sunrise.

 

It’s no surprise, really, that he’s managed to cobble together a weird little business all of his own. It’s… hard for everyone. People do what they need to do to keep going, and they have little time for anything else. Bucky’s thrown himself into taking care of his dog. She’s a spoiled little brat, and he  _ knows  _ it, but for some people, it’s a lot. Getting out, doing something simple like taking the dog for a walk, it seems like an impossible task. 

 

It  _ almost  _ makes Bucky feel like he’s doing something valuable.

 

At the very least, he’s gotten good at dealing with tragedy. After being discharged from the army, it’d been hard. Eventually, he’d managed to cobble together a sense of wry sarcasm as a coping mechanism. It’s serving him well now.

 

Bucky knocks on the door with his prosthetic, wincing a little at how  _ loud  _ it sounds. He’s good at using the arm, by now, but sometimes he forgets his own strength. There have been a few broken doorknobs in his past, shamefully enough--though  _ that  _ hasn’t happened in a while, at least.

 

His neighbour, a woman in her mid-forties, opens the door. She looks better today than she usually does, Bucky has to admit, and that’s a good thing. It’s a struggle. It’s a process.

 

“Mornin’, Ellie,” Bucky says cheerfully enough. He knows he looks like shit. His hair needs to be washed. It’s still slightly matted, and he’d pulled it back into a messy bun, but there are little greasy, curly bits hanging down around his ears. He has dark circles under his eyes. 

 

“Good morning, James,” she replies.  _ Before,  _ he’d always called her Mrs. P. That trend had continued, even after she and her husband had divorced. But then it had happened, and she’s had worse luck than a lot. Both her ex-husband  _ and  _ their young son--gone in the blink of an eye. Now it’s just her and her dog, a sweet giant of a Great Dane, and one of his regulars. And she  _ refuses  _ to let him call her that anymore. First names only, because the past is too hard. 

 

“Duke excited for his  _ w-a-l-k?”  _ Bucky asks conversationally. Behind her, in the living room, the massive dog is sprawled in his giant bed. He lifts his head up, tail wagging. He and Waffles are old friends, and the corgi whines, tugging at her leash. 

 

“He always is,” Ellie replies. She opens the door a little wider, and then says, “... I know it’s early. You have time for a coffee, before your next stop?” 

 

Bucky has time, and she knows it. There’s a reason his neighbour books him for the  _ early  _ morning walk. His business card reads: _ Bucky Barnes, Professional Dog Walker at the End of the World _ , but it might as well, underneath, contain the subtitle, ‘therapy optional.’ 

 

It’s her son’s birthday next week, Bucky learns, over coffee. She knows that they’re supposed to do shit like…  _ move on,  _ but it seems so goddamn impossible. How does anyone move on from any of this? So Bucky doesn’t say any of the usual, cliche shit. He just listens, tight-lipped, and when things get difficult, he lifts Waffles up into his lap and strokes through her thick fur. 

 

“I’m sorry, James. I-- didn’t mean for it to be a  _ thing,”  _ she says, forty five minutes later, when he’s finally clipping the leash onto Duke’s collar. But he knows that sometimes, these things just happen, and sometimes she requests him  _ early.  _ It’s hard to find people to talk to, because nobody quite knows how to deal. 

 

“Anytime, Ellie,” Bucky says with an exhausted smile. His own nightmares are always plaguing him, his own memories haunting, but… listening to someone else, just doing whatever he can, it helps. It wears him down, but at least there’s some small contribution he’s making. 

 

\---

 

“You know, I don’t pay you enough,” his last client of the day, a girl close to his age, jokes with a shake of her head. 

 

Her name is Chloe. She’s a cute girl, one that Bucky actually knows tangentially from his high school years. If he wasn’t hopelessly gay, maybe there’d be a spark of attraction--he sees how she looks at him, after all, underneath all the nostalgic despair. Despite that, they’ve become… well. Not friends.  _ Friends  _ is a hard concept, when there’s so much raw grief. But their lives have enough overlap that it’s easy to talk. 

 

“It’s fine,” Bucky replies with a shrug. “Everyone knows the dog-walking thing is the guise that gets me here. We’re all just a bunch of lonely motherfuckers.” 

 

It’s the truth, of course. There are the occasional people who really  _ are  _ just too busy throwing themselves into rebuilding their lives to walk their damn dogs. But most of his clients at least make a few minutes of small talk. At least half of them invite him in. And they  _ all  _ pay him as well as they can, though the economy is so fucked up, nobody really knows the concept or value of money anymore. 

 

The world has started to settle down a  _ little,  _ which somehow only makes it harder. They’re all at the point where they’re supposed to start moving on, but-- how does someone even start down that path? 

 

“You’re a good guy, Bucky,” Chloe says. Her dog is a mutt, part chihuahua, part something fluffy. He snuggles up in his owner’s arms, licking at her neck, and that makes Bucky smile. 

 

“Just doing my part. We all need someone to talk to,” and maybe there’s a part of Bucky that aches, soul-deep and burning, at the words. After all, Becca had been there for him, after he’d returned, and he’s just paying it forward. That’s what she’d want, right? It’s his own form of coping, he knows, but he isn’t quite ready to unpack that.

 

“You do too, you know,” Chloe points out. “You mostly just  _ listen.  _ And that’s good, Bucky, it is,  _ but…”  _

 

“But I’m not the paying customer,” Bucky points out, and maybe it’s a little too abrupt. Maybe his flesh fingers tighten in his dog’s fur just a  _ little.  _ She whines, low in her throat, and Bucky flushes, immediately relaxing his grip and offering her an apologetic look. 

 

Chloe shakes her head. “Well. No. But. My cousin-- he lost his partner-- and he goes to this group. It’s at the old VA, I know you used to go there…” she knows, of course, because she was friends with Becca. They don’t  _ talk  _ about that part, because it’s too hard, and Bucky isn’t about to start blubbering to a client. 

 

He hasn’t been to the VA in years. For one, the counsellor he used to see isn’t alive anymore. Everyone who provided any sort of stability in Bucky’s life seems to have been an unfortunate victim. He really  _ does  _ have the worst luck ever.

 

Bucky immediately opens his mouth to say  _ no,  _ that’s a terrible idea. But he’s been listening to everyone else’s trauma all goddamn day. His nightmare from the morning keeps creeping in, and every time, it becomes heavier, harder. And he knows how these groups work. He knows he doesn’t  _ have  _ to talk. Maybe just being there isn’t a bad idea.

 

It’s summer, though, nearly the end of June, and Bucky knows what’s coming.  It’ll be the fourth of July, and he’ll be dodging the remnants of extended family, pretending that he’s not abandoning everyone he has left, because the reality of his parents and his sisters being gone is-- it’s too hard. 

 

“... what time?” he finds himself saying, weakly, instead. And maybe, just maybe, Becca and his mom would be proud of him for that. 

 

Chloe smiles, something small and triumphant, and Bucky recognizes the look on her face, because that’s how he feels, when he listens to one of his clients, when they recollect doing something hard. They’re all just trying to get by, and sometimes helping each other out is all they have left. “Let me get the information,” she says. 

 

\---

 

That’s how, at seven o’clock that night, Bucky finds himself in the old VA building in Brooklyn. It feels like an entire lifetime ago that he was here, a shell-shocked vet. All of his cares in the world had been… well, everything had been a blur back then, too. But the worst of his issues had been putting the scrambled, traumatized mess of his brain back together. Learning how to use the prosthetic, how to get rid of the weird phantom pain he still felt in his shoulder, stabbing down his arm. Those had been  _ simple  _ problems, objectively, compared to what they live with now.

 

Bucky feels naked, empty, without Waffles along. He’d sat on his bed for a long time, after Chloe had texted him the details, debating if he should even  _ go.  _ And then when he made the eventual decision that yes, he’s gonna do this, he’ll at least  _ try,  _ there’d been the dilemma of whether to bring his dog. He’d turned her service dog vest in his hands over and over again, debating. Because,  _ yeah,  _ having her with him is easier, but unfortunately Bucky has realized, long ago, that taking a corgi anywhere, even a working one, means that he’s going to inevitably end up playing therapist to people. Nobody can resist a fat, fluffy corgi, especially when there’s no goddamn joy left in the world.

 

In the end, he decides he wants to make a quiet entrance. He doesn’t think he wants to talk. He sure as hell doesn’t want any extra attention on him. So, prosthetic hand tucked into his pocket, hair freshly washed and tied back in a bun, dressed as nice-casual as he can manage with a black leather jacket and dark-washed skinny jeans, Bucky makes his way in. 

 

It’s a relatively small group, and Bucky doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He’s  _ here,  _ though, and that has to mean something. There’s about two dozen people, sitting in a cluster. Some are chatting with each other conversationally. Others keep to themselves. There’s that awkward, heavy air hanging in the room, and Bucky thinks maybe he isn’t the only fresh face in the room.

 

Of course, the door opens, and then--  _ holy fucking shit.  _

 

He’s glad he didn’t bring his dog, because Bucky Barnes is suddenly staring down the face of a goddamn  _ war hero.  _ He gets ready to whip his phone out and text Chloe because what the hell, she could have warned him that  _ Captain America  _ goes to this support group. 

 

Captain America nods and smiles a tight-lipped, anxious little smile as he approaches the group. There are a few empty chairs near Bucky’s, and he prays that the man doesn’t sit down next to him, because what do you even say to a man like that?! “Hey, sorry you couldn’t save the world, bet it must be great, feeling personally responsible for the death of billions?” It’s common knowledge that Cap has largely faded from the public image since everything happened. Even the paparazzi isn’t cruel enough to chase around a broken down, defeated failed superhero. 

 

Cap sits down at the front of the group, in a chair left purposely empty. For a moment, Bucky’s brain short-circuits, because okay, yeah, he’s never seen Captain America in the flesh before. He’s a gay child of the internet era, so of course, as soon as he found his dick, he’d been jerking it to hot guys on his laptop screen. And  _ okay,  _ so maybe Cap had wandered into his fantasies occasionally-- but. Oh  _ hell.  _ He’s at a support group, thinking with his dick, and that’s the part where his brain catches up.

 

That’s the part where Bucky realizes Cap just sat down at the seat in the center of the weird semi-circular cluster of chairs and bodies. That’s where he realizes that not only is a national icon  _ at  _ his support group, he’s leading it. Oh  _ fuck. _ The papers sure as hell don’t ever report on  _ that.  _

 

“Looks like a good turnout for tonight,” Cap says, in a voice that manages to be both commanding and reserved all at the same time. How does he  _ do  _ that? “We’ll wait a few minutes, and then get going. Sound good?” 

 

Bucky wants to die. He shrinks down in his chair and pretends that this isn’t happening, because he sure as hell can’t  _ leave,  _ not when his childhood crush is sitting right there. 

 

\---

  
  


Ultimately, Bucky doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that the group session is… well, rough. Because on the one hand, it’s hard to stare at Captain America’s perfect jawline when the person three seats over is stuttering their way through recounting a panic attack the night before. It’s hard to notice how Cap’s shirt is a  _ little  _ too tight, how the shift of muscle is visible, when Bucky himself is diving back down into the bitter recesses of his own mind.

 

Everyone here is struggling. The girl next to him, he learns, lost her baby. 

 

The guy across from him lost his entire family. Seems like Bucky isn’t the only one with the shit luck.

 

When they work their way around him to, Cap’s eyes meet Bucky’s, and there’s a sudden surge of emotion, heavy and nauseating and settling ugly in the pit of his stomach. “Do you have anything you’d like to say today?” he asks quietly.

 

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but  _ where  _ to begin?  _ Hi, I’m Bucky Barnes, I walk dogs and let people vent to me because I know what it’s like to be alone and I want to pretend I’m not a useless sack of shit?  _ Maybe,  _ hi, I’m Bucky, I managed to be the sole survivor in a family of six?  _ Or, of course, his favourite,  _ Hi, I’m Bucky, look, only half of me got dusted!  _ Flourished with a nice wave of his prosthetic arm, of course. 

 

Instead, Bucky swallows heavily and shifts in his seat. It creaks awkwardly in the quiet room, the sound far louder than it has any right to be. He  _ should  _ but… maybe next week. 

 

Bucky shakes his head, chewing at his lower lip, and they move on. The girl to Bucky’s other side doesn’t have much to say. She  _ thought  _ she saw her best friend in a grocery store the other day, but-- it was just a similar haircut. They’re all living, somehow, surrounded by ghosts. 

 

Next week, Bucky tells himself quietly, he’ll talk. And then, of course, he realizes that he’s thinking about a  _ next week.  _

 

He zones out after they make it around the entire group. Cap gives a rousing speech, one about doing their best to move forward. He says some motivational bullshit about making the best of the world, about how their loved ones would want to see them thrive. Bucky thinks it’s a bunch of bullshit. 

 

He remembers, before all this shit happened, watching the Avengers press conferences from Twitter live feeds. He remembers when all the shit and drama happened, when people started crying out that it was less  _ saving the world  _ and more causing havoc, chaos and destruction. 

 

Bucky’s always been sympathetic-- after all, he’s been in warzones. Civilians have a way of turning a blind eye to the actual cost of freedom. Bucky? He’s disillusioned. And he has to wonder, if any of that political bullshit had never happened, would things have turned out differently? A part of him wants to stand up, wants to ask that, but -- the way Captain America carries himself, solemn and downtrodden, pressing himself to put any sort of conviction or force into the speech, it’s sad enough. 

 

After the meeting, though, there’s a few snacks set up. There are people mingling, and he knows that they’re being encouraged to make friends, forge new connections. That’s half the point of these meetings. 

 

Bucky, though, he’s starting to feel that bone-deep unease that always manages to work its way in when he’s stretching himself too thin, when he’s pushing too far. It’s times like these that he wishes he had Waffles. She always knows to tuck in close, to press her nose into his outstretched hand. His heart is beating just a little too hard, a steady thrum against his ribcage, and Bucky swears, he can taste metallic blood when he licks his lips. He needs to get out of here, needs to go home and  _ sleep  _ and recharge. 

 

He’s not the only one loitering alone, sticking to the edges of the group. As he carefully turns to make his way out of the room, to make a quiet escape, the breath is torn from Bucky’s lungs, because-- there he is, standing right in front of him.

 

Closer up, he can see the tight line of Cap’s lips, the tired little half-smile that’s clearly pasted on, insincere and forced. Bucky can see the deep-set wrinkles on the man’s normally smooth, damn perfect face. Captain America looks like a man carrying the whole world’s guilt on his shoulders, and hell, he probably  _ is.  _

 

“You’re new here,” Cap says softly, his voice low enough that nobody else can hear. 

 

Bucky’s heart is pounding, and he feels like he’s going to explode.  _ Great. Fucking fantastic.  _ He meets Captain America for the first time, and it’s right on the verge of a goddamn panic attack. 

 

“Yeah, I-- sorry-- on my way out--” Bucky says, quickly, and he pushes past Cap, all six-fucking-two of him, all solid muscle and god-like physique. Maybe the guy isn’t used to being ignored, or shoved past, but if he is, he doesn’t say anything. He carefully steps to the side, lets Bucky rush through the room and down the hallway.

 

It’s a cool night out, thank fucking  _ god,  _ when Bucky practically bursts through the doors and out into the night sky. It’s that time of year when summer is just really starting to kick in, but the nights still have a bit of a chill to them. The air feels good on Bucky’s face, and he realizes he’s panting, taking in deep gulps of air, as if it’s going to calm him down. 

 

“Fuck,” he says aloud, “fuck _ everything,  _ fuck!” 

 

There are a few people wandering the streets. An older lady gives him a long, lingering glance, and if she feels any sympathy, she doesn’t express it, quickly crossing to the opposite side of the street and rushing away. Bucky doesn’t blame her. He feels crazy. He  _ is  _ crazy. God, how can anyone pretend that life is normal?

 

How are  _ any  _ of them still alive?

 

He doesn’t live too far away, but the idea of walking home feels  _ impossible.  _ So instead, Bucky slides down the wall, until he’s seated right on the sidewalk, a few feet away from the door. He hopes that nobody else decides to leave the meeting early, but if they do-- nobody will really notice him here, lurking in the shadows, all tucked in on himself like the weirdo he is.

 

Of course, because Bucky is the world’s unluckiest person, the door immediately opens, and out comes Captain-fucking-America. And, naturally, he sees him immediately. 

 

“Hey,” he says, as if their first interaction didn’t  _ just  _ end in Bucky rushing off with barely a word. 

 

Cap sits down next to him. Bucky doesn’t say anything. He tucks his knees in tighter against his chest. Some of his hair has fallen loose from his bun and it falls over his eyes, a blanket, keeping the rest of the world at bay. Cap is close enough that he can  _ feel  _ the goddamn heat coming from the other man. 

 

“ ‘m okay,” Bucky says quietly, his voice rough, “you don’t have to babysit me. Promise.” 

 

“Okay,” Cap echoes back. “What  _ is  _ okay, anyway?” 

 

It’s a good question. Bucky doesn’t answer right away, but something inside of him calms, just a  _ little.  _ His heart is still thrashing against his ribs, as if it’s trying to burrow right out of his chest. His hands are shaking a little, and it’s hard to breathe. Deep breaths, his sister’s voice is saying, in the back of his mind,  _ take deep breaths, Bucky.  _

 

“People are moving on,” Bucky says quietly, eventually. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Minutes? Hours? Time loses all meaning, when you’re fighting a silent, hopeless battle with your own body. But Captain America is a good man. Everyone  _ knows  _ that. The poor guy had still been in the ice when Bucky had been growing up, and it’d been drilled into his head with history lessons. 

 

And so, the superhero from the past sits quietly at Bucky’s side until he’s ready to talk. 

 

“Some people,” Cap replies, another beat of silence between them. “Not everyone, though.” 

 

“Not me,” Bucky says quietly. He feels stupid. He feels like a child, desperately clinging to the past. His entire goddamn  _ family  _ is gone. It’s like losing his arm all over again, but-- he’d had Becca to prop him up. He’d had his mom, his dad, his other two sisters. There’d been an overwhelming family of Barneses to welcome him back, and  _ that  _ had been a panic attack all on its own, but at the end of the day? He’d had them. He’d known.

 

Cap sighs quietly. Then. “Me either,” he says, softly. “.. I don’t talk much, in the group. It’s not really my place to dump my own feelings. But… I get it.” 

 

The immediate response that surges to the surface, harsh and scathing, is for Bucky to point out that  _ no,  _ he doesn’t get it. Whoever this guy is, he didn’t lose his entire goddamn family in this hell. He isn’t  _ alone.  _ But-- but. 

 

But he’d been right there, on the frontlines. He’d fought the fought, and he’d  _ lost,  _ and isn’t that the same as losing everything? Bucky knows he’s not to blame. He blames himself for a lot of things. He blames himself for being a shitty son. He blames himself for being a bad brother, for not calling Becca back, before they’d all been whisked out of existence. But he knows he’s just a guy with a missing arm and a dog, and he knows in the long run? He’s nothing special.

 

Captain America, on the other hand. He’d  _ failed.  _ And he probably spends every goddamn second of the day thinking just that. 

 

“... yeah,” Bucky agrees quietly, instead. “Guess you probably do, huh?” 

 

He lifts his head. His hair is a mess, and Bucky tosses his head to get the long strands out of his eyes. The night is darker than it used to be-- fewer people mean less lights on. Not as much light pollution, even in Brooklyn, makes the stars shine, bright, cold pinpricks of light far overhead. It really  _ is  _ pretty, and even thoughts like that come with a heavy pang of guilt. 

 

“Steve Rogers,” Cap -- Steve -- says after a moment. He holds a hand out. 

 

Bucky hesitates. Slowly, he untangles himself just a little, uncurling his human hand from its place wrapped around his legs, so he can shake the man’s hand. The grip is firm, smooth, and  _ god,  _ there’s a little spark of something in the touch. It’s… something almost familiar, like a goddamn relic from the past, suddenly snapped back into the present. He doesn’t understand it.

 

“Bucky Barnes,” he says softly. “... thanks, Steve. For…” 

 

Bucky lets the words trail off. For  _ what?  _ For doing his best? For trying to save the world, even if he’d failed? For cobbling together a sad little group therapy session, so they can pretend that the world isn’t lying in waste, that maybe there’s still  _ some  _ sort of value hidden underneath all the ruin? 

 

He doesn’t have to figure out what to say, though, because Steve shrugs. “It’s the least I can do,” he says softly. Bucky sees the way his shoulders slump, though, and he thinks maybe, Steve Rogers is even more fucked up than all of them.

 

“I think I’m better now,” Bucky says lamely, because he suddenly realizes, he has  _ no  _ idea what to say. The scariest part is that he  _ wants  _ to talk to Cap. He wants to talk to this man. He wants to tell him that none of it is his fault, that he’d tried, that maybe  _ he  _ should work out a way to move on, but-- well. Instead, Bucky Barnes is drawing back into himself. 

 

“Oh,” Steve says. “Okay.”

 

Steve only hesitates a moment before he pulls himself up to his feet. Bucky can’t help but sneak a glance, just a quick one, in the darkness. The man is imposing, all six feet of him, all that solid muscle. His heart skips a beat, and Bucky doesn’t think it’s the lingering anxiety anymore. God, what the hell is even going  _ on?  _

 

Bucky takes the hand that Steve offers him, though. The man’s grip is firm, and he hoists him up like he weighs  _ nothing.  _ And fuck--compared to what Captain America is capable of, he probably doesn’t weigh anything at all. 

 

“I’ll see you here next week?” Steve asks, as he releases Bucky’s hand. 

 

James Buchanan Barnes has absolutely  _ no  _ idea what he’s doing. His existence is cobbled together with scraps of his past life and whatever he can draw motivation from. He knows he’s selfish, with his stupid little dog walking business, with the way he lets everyone use him as a damn therapist. He wants to feel like he exists for a  _ reason. _ And god, he can’t even imagine how Steve Rogers must feel. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, making the sudden decision to come back, to  _ try  _ harder. Why, he doesn’t know, but Bucky’s speaking the words aloud, voicing a promise into existence. “Next week, Steve. I’ll see you then?” 

 

And the way Steve Rogers smiles at him-- something soft, something so goddamn uncertain, but beautiful and heartbreaking? Bucky doesn’t know what that means, either. “Good,” he says, “I look forward to it, Bucky.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery goals of the week: 
> 
> Step 1: Have the balls to go back  
> Step 2: don't have a meltdown in front of Steve Rogers
> 
> Well, at least Bucky makes it past step one. That's progress, right?

There’s a part of James Buchanan Barnes that wants to pretend that he’s a _good_ person. He knows, objectively, that he could’ve been better. He’ll tell himself, again and again, that things like _obligation, duty,_ those sort of noble emotions - they’d fuelled his shitty military career. Of course, he’d been a dumb kid. There’d been some idealistic fantasies, and he’d been chasing some sort of glory, some sense of achievement. There had been adrenaline pumping through his veins when he’d signed the papers. 

 

It’d been stupid. He’d gone and gotten himself nearly blown up. His family had to deal with the aftermath, and even though he’d let Becca drag him to family get-togethers, Bucky had always been acutely aware of how heavily he relied on the rest of the world to keep him propped up. A _failure._

 

Things had gotten better for a while, but-- 

 

He wonders what happened, sometimes, when people simply… faded away, disintegrated into ash. Bucky knows it’s deeply selfish that he’s _glad_ he wasn’t with his family when it happened. He can’t imagine -- watching it, before his very eyes-- there one moment, gone the next. 

 

Instead, he’d been napping his way through the day, depressed, and when he’d woken-- 

 

That’s another tangent; another journey he isn’t going on, not today.

 

Point is, Bucky knows he ain’t a goddamn saint.

 

Maybe he should feel a bit guiltier than he does. And he _does_ feel guilty, but there’s a strange sort of morbid curiosity. He knows he isn’t the _worst_ person, objectively. Sometimes his hellbrain reminds him of all the awful things he’s done. He’s killed people. He’s a _monster._ He’s let everyone down. He thinks back, thinks about his sister, about his parents, about the fact that they _died_ and he’s been a shit person. 

 

And maybe that’s why Bucky does it; maybe that’s why he’s doing his best to keep going. That’s why he has his dog, and that’s why he’s a shoulder to lean on, for whoever needs him. It almost makes him feel human.

 

Either way, he feels guilty, yeah, when he grabs his laptop this particular morning. But he still does it, and he nudges away all the muddled thoughts surrounding just how ethical this very choice is. He’s only debated it for _days_ now, gone back and forth on the merits of privacy. 

 

But today, he has nothing planned. Today, Bucky can’t quite turn off the buzzing in his head. 

 

The news is _depressing,_ and the phases and cycles of sensationalism mark the passage of time. First, there had been shock. Denial. Then, deep anger. There had been a long, dark, violent phase where everything on the news attacked the Avengers, slandering them for not doing _enough._ That’s about the time that Bucky stopped paying attention. 

 

He knows the seven stages of grief well. It’s basically required reading, when you’re a war vet with PTSD. Somewhere the actual chart is printed off, crammed in one of his binders with old counselling homework. 

 

Bucky doesn’t think _anyone_ ever really makes it to acceptance, but it’s nice to pretend. At best, he thinks, creeping out of outright _depression_ and hovering in the _testing_ stage is probably the most anyone can hope for. Seeking realistic solutions and finding none. After all, everyone is dead. 

 

He wonders, idly, how Steve Rogers feels. Probably fucking horrible. It’s around the time that people were desperately looking for someone to blame that Bucky stopped following any of the stories. What good does it do, after all? At this point, all the survivors can do is band together. So _that’s_ what Bucky had done. It’s like being in the middle of a battlefield, because really, that’s what the entire universe became-- a battlefield, except there’s no victors. They’d lost the war. All of them, together. 

 

The mattress shifts slightly as all thirty five pounds of corgi flops onto the bed next to him. It snaps Bucky out of his thoughts, at the very least, and he slips his hand down, fingers idly petting at her soft, velvety ears as he awkwardly props his laptop on his belly and types, one-handed, into the google search bar: _steve rogers recent news_

 

A lot of the articles that load have inflammatory headlines. One thing sure as hell hasn’t changed: half the population being wiped out hasn’t killed off clickbait. Bucky sighs, ignoring the bullshit, and scrolls through, until he comes across a mostly neutral (maybe even _positive)_ article titled: “Avengers: Where Are They Now?” 

 

It feels voyeuristic, in a way, but Bucky can’t help himself, clicking the page, his eyes skimming the words as he reads. 

 

Steve Rogers, it seems, hasn’t touched the mantle in years. It’s common knowledge that Sokovia had happened in a big way, that the Avengers had been fractured. He doesn’t need to revisit that. He won’t bother going down the rabbithole there, because nobody had wanted the Avengers saving the world back then. 

 

It turns out Cap lives in Brooklyn - which, of course, Bucky could’ve guessed, given the support group. It’s all relatively boring, mundane. What else is there to do? There’s an interview from a few months back - Steve Rogers offering ‘no comment’ on the current state of what’s left of the Avengers. Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, is leading the charge now. Iron Man has retired (which Bucky already knew - there are remnants of Stark Industries still, though.) 

 

Steve Rogers has apparently gone through a rough breakup, another ‘no comment’ and a whole lot of weird speculation on the author’s part following. It’s at that point that Bucky gets a weird, twisting guilt in the pit of his stomach and clicks out of the article. On to the next one. 

 

Bucky feels gross, he realizes, after he clicks through a few more. _The Avengers should have done more_ . _Regulation of superheroes ultimately failed everyone,_ another one touts, but Bucky’s head hurts.  It’s none of his business. One thing is apparent, though: Captain America has fallen. None of them came out unscathed. 

 

“I probably shouldn’t go back,” Bucky says aloud to Waffles. She lifts her head and makes a quiet, grunting sound in his direction. That, at the very least, makes Bucky smile. He _should_ go back. He just shouldn’t have any of these weird, conflicting feelings about a man who’s even more fucked up than he is. But, of course, Bucky’s always been attracted to people just as broken as he is, especially when they’re old childhood crushes.

 

“Maybe Cap just needs a dog,” he adds, with a laugh. What a thought. Waffles nudges her nose into his hand, and Bucky is pretty sure that’s her way of agreeing. 

 

And god, it’s a good distraction, because there’s another tiny - pathetic, _miniscule,_ definitely practically nonexistent - part of him that’s thinking: Steve Rogers is _single._ And Bucky knows, of course, that it’s stupid. The world is a mess. He hasn’t even _considered_ dating someone seriously. There’s no way he could ever _look_ at someone with even more baggage than him-- and if there _is_ one person in the world who has it worse off, it’s Captain America. 

 

Cap is probably straight as an arrow, anyway. Bucky’s gaydar has always been shit and the guy’s ass is a national icon. 

 

Bucky doesn’t think hookups count, when he examines his relationships over the past few years, anyway. He’s pretty much in a dedicated, long-term relationship with his PTSD, and what other place is there in his life for a person?

 

Stupid. 

 

“No more reading this shit,” he says quite seriously to his dog. “I mean it.” 

 

Waffles looks at him mournfully with her big doe-eyes, and Bucky knows that he’s fucked. 

 

 _Okay,_ he tells himself. New goal. Therapy is all about homework, about setting realistic goals, right? So no more reading articles. No more research.

 

"Step one," he tells Waffles aloud, "I gotta go back next week. Self-care.  _No,_ it's not about looking at his ass again, I swear." Do normal people talk to their dogs? Bucky isn't sure, but he thinks it helps, even if he's almost positive the dog is smart enough to be judging him. Whatever. "And step two: no meltdowns. Not in front of Cap."

 

Waffles pushes her nose into his hand, and Bucky is pretty sure she's mocking him. 

 

"Mean," he says, but it makes him smile. He can do this. 

 

\---

 

Of course, the following week, Bucky finds himself back at group therapy. How can he not?

 

Chloe had insisted she had _no idea_ that the group was run by Captain America. Bucky can’t decide if she’s lying or not. He’s pretty sure he’s an out and proud disaster gay, even if the hellscape that is _reality_ definitely threw them all under the bus, and anyone even remotely associated with him has a tendency to try and play matchmaker. 

 

He’s heard that his twenties is _supposed_ to be the time of his life. Instead, he’s lucky to get laid a few times a year. It’s all hookup culture and bullshit, and then he goes back into his depression spiral, all his energy dedicated to simply keeping afloat. But he’s pretty sure he’s mentioned his silly childhood crush on the guy. _Everyone_ who’s bothered to ask Bucky about his childhood sexuality crisis hears about Cap.

 

Either way. She claims innocence, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because it works, and he _needs_ therapy. Bucky has an alarm set on his phone, and he finds himself only loitering for a few minutes outside the old VA building before he’s quietly shuffling inside. He’s still hesitant. He still doesn’t think he wants to talk. But he’s _here._

 

And already, he’s starting to recognize familiar faces. It’s largely the same group from the prior week. There’s a couple of faces that he _thinks_ might be new. Bucky used to be really good with people. Socializing came easy to him. These days, it’s… harder. _Everything_ is harder. It was easy, and then it was impossible, and now it’s just hard, like the constant ebb and flow of _life._ They’re bouncing back, right? At least he’s here. 

 

He should’ve brought his dog. She makes things easier. She’s a good conversation starter, and Waffles _is_ an acting service dog, even if most of the time he lets her run around with neurotic corgi energy. Still, this place makes Bucky uneasy. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. He doesn’t want to talk. 

 

It makes him think of the past, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to relive old counselling sessions, or physical therapy right after they gave him the new arm. It’s all tainted, because there’d been a single, shining beacon of light: his sister. Now, it’s just a void. 

 

Steve Rogers looks exhausted this week when he enters the room - punctual, right to the second. It’s a bit unsettling, really. The guy’s shoulders are slightly slumped though. He’s wearing a t-shirt, though, soft and cotton and well-worn, drawn tight over said shoulders. Bucky knows he shouldn’t stare at the washed out superhero-cum-support group leader, but god, the man’s _muscles_ are absolutely sinful.

 

It’s unfair, really, that in the middle of an apocalypse, even when he’s not actively saving anyone, Steve Rogers still manages to keep the physique. Bucky’s depression spiral had led to a good year of squishiness before he’d managed to get back into any sort of routine. 

 

Damn supersoldier serum, he thinks.

 

And even though Steve Rogers looks worn and tired, even if he looks like he’s got a thousand other places to be, he settles down in his chair. Bucky _might_ have intentionally chosen a seat that gives him a good look at the guy, and he thinks he sees a hint of scruff growing in. That isn’t even _fair._

 

(Bucky _might_ have followed the news in the days that Cap was a real-life fugitive, the occasional sightings, and god, that _beard…_ Bucky’s sex drive had plumetted, post-war, but shit, that was a good look for Rogers.) 

 

“Okay, hey-- hi, thanks for coming,” Steve Rogers says in that _voice_ of his, the one that commands silence and attention, even when he’s just casually piloting a sad Wednesday night support group. The room falls to a lull, and Bucky promises himself, he’s _not_ gonna ogle at the poor guy. Of course, there’s a twisting sensation in his gut, and the immediate surge of guilt follows. He’s fucked up. 

 

There aren’t a lot of chatty people this week. 

 

Bucky’s chair is creaky, he realizes too, as he shifts awkwardly in the moments of silence between, right after one girl confessing she woke up feeling _okay_ with being alone for the first time in--forever. And then, of course, came the guilt. Because it’s not simple. Moving on is somehow harder than being stuck in the past, because it comes with all that conflict. Bucky… thinks he gets that, and he doesn’t wanna. 

 

His chair creaks again. The next person doesn’t want to talk, not this week. It was a bad week.

 

The guy next to Bucky mumbles, his voice barely audible, his words shaky, about how he managed to get out of bed even though he didn’t want to. It was his anniversary, he says in a hushed tone, and Bucky winces in sympathy. He’s lost everything, too, but-- at least not _that._ At least there’s never been romance in his life, nothing _real_. 

 

Then-- 

 

The guy falls silent, and Bucky realizes that there are eyes on him. God. He’s sitting in the middle of this quiet room at the old VA, but suddenly he feels small, vulnerable. Suddenly, there’s the beating of the sun down on him-- but overhead, it’s just fluorescent lights. Suddenly, there’s the deadly silence that comes before the explosion, there’s sand and dirt and _red_ blood, there’s thick ash in the air, there’s destruction and ruin in the middle of Brooklyn, and _god,_ he can’t do this. 

 

“Hey. Breathe,” Steve Rogers says softly, that voice cutting through all the thick, heavy silence permeating the room, and-- Bucky breathes. He takes a shaky, deep breath in with shuddery lungs. He shifts. His chair creaks, another sound breaking free, another link of chain slipping free. He’s _not_ back there. He’s not standing in piles of ashy remains. He’s in a support group for _survivors,_ and that’s what he is. 

 

“... uh,” Bucky says, the sound awkward. Another shift. Another creak. He looks around, forces himself to focus somewhere, _anywhere,_ and naturally, his gaze automatically hones in on Steve Rogers. God, the man is beautiful. Chiselled jaw, hair slicked back away from his face, eyes… strangely soft, around the edges. And watching _him._ Their eyes meet, and god, there’s a sudden jolt of electricity, tingling through his veins, pooling at the base of his spine and lighting up his nerves. 

 

“Hi,” Bucky forces himself to say. His throat is dry. His voice croaks. “I’m Bucky. I-- I’m new here.” 

 

As if that isn’t obvious. As if it isn’t _painfully_ obvious that he has no idea what he’s doing here, that he’s a total fucking mess. Instinctively, Bucky reaches down for Waffles, to tangle his fingers in her fur, but--right. She’s not here. He hadn’t brought her. 

 

“Hi Bucky,” Steve Rogers says, as if they hadn’t already made awkward introductions in the middle of Bucky’s total meltdown the following week. But still, Bucky respects that, appreciates it even, because a bit of the tension eases away. He breathes again, deep and steady, and forces his shoulders to relax. 

 

“I don’t-- I’m not good at this,” Bucky tries to explain, and even as his words cut through that silence again, it feels… just a bit better, a bit less oppressive. Cap’s -- Steve’s -- lips quirk a little, that tight little smile loosening just a little, and he appreciates that, too. 

 

“Nobody is,” Steve says, encouraging. Bucky knows it’s stupid, taking reassurance in something so simple, but… he glances around, quickly, and realizes: nobody is judging. Nobody is staring at him with derision or disgust. It’s not like when he came home, a shell shocked war vet, jumping at every little thing, barely able to take care of himself, all sallow-eyed and greasy-haired. _Nobody_ came out unscathed. He can do this.

 

Instead, people are nodding along. Instead, Bucky sees something reflected back at him: understanding. And god, maybe he’s been throwing himself into trying to fix _everyone else,_ maybe-- 

 

“I lost my family twice,” Bucky finds himself blurting, suddenly, into a silent room that doesn’t quite feel _so_ oppressive. It takes him by surprise; his hands shift, twisting in his lap. He wishes he had his dog. But he takes a deep breath, and he can’t help it-- he looks at Steve again. Captain America, with his bright eyes focused on him, a soft encouraging smile, and _something_ sparks in the air between them. It’s a connection, tangible and electric and he’d shiver, if he wasn’t right on the brink of self-revelation. 

 

“The first time… overseas. When I-- my arm,” he’s saying words for the sake of saying them, pushing them past his lips before they disappear back into the darkness of his mind. Bucky’s eyes are locked on Steve’s, though, and it’s… oddly intimate, making a confession into a room full of strangers, when all he can do is stare down his childhood idol. Steve’s face has softened. Some of those heavy lines on his jaw, creasing his forehead, they’ve relaxed just a little. 

 

It’s a good look, it’s… 

 

“And then. I came back. Took-- a long time to figure out _what_ I was-- my sister, Becca, she…” 

 

He doesn’t want to talk about that part. Doesn’t wanna mention the days he just didn’t get out of bed. All the missed doctor’s appointments, when it’d just been too _hard,_ his sister taking time off work and showing up to prop him up, to make sure he’s okay. Those memories are bitter and raw; they ache more viscerally than his shoulder, and suddenly, Bucky’s not okay anymore.

 

Suddenly, he feels the walls of the large room closing in. Suddenly, he’s _aware_ that he’s surrounded by more than just Steve Rogers. And even though Bucky can feel the sadness, the ache and the hurting, even if he knows he’s not alone, it’s not _enough._

 

“ _Sorry--”_ he chokes out, and he thinks his eyes are wet around the edges. He can’t look at Steve anymore, either, tearing his gaze down to stare at his lap. “...I… I _can’t._ ”

 

And if he’s pathetic, keeping himself on the verge of a meltdown, barely on the right side of sanity, nobody says it. 

 

“That’s fine. Thanks, Bucky,” Steve says, instead, in a voice that’s too kind, so much more than he deserves, “Talking for the first time is always hard….” and even though Bucky always wants to listen to Captain America, right now the words slip away. It all falls into the background, his mind screaming, racing a thousand miles a minute.

 

He stares down at his hands. They’re twisting in his lap, flesh lacing with smooth synthetic digits, and it’s funny, really. One moment, everything is okay. One moment, Bucky feels _brave._ The next? He’s like the new kid at school, terrified and alone, and he doesn’t have _anyone,_ not anymore. 

 

He’s a child again. They’d moved, when he was a kid, Brooklyn to Illinois--and then back again, and Bucky remembers, harsh and visceral, the feeling of being off-center. Of being _alone._ Even then, Becca had crawled into his bed, had curled her skinny arms around him until things felt a bit better. 

 

He’d always adjusted. Always flourished, always faced adversity. When he broke his arm as a kid, Becca had been in the hospital. When he came out in high school and everyone hated him-- she’d been there til he bounced back. Before deployment, _during,_ when the world went to hell, he had her emails and care packages. His mom, too. When he’d woken up, off-center and missing a literal _part_ of him-- they’d been here. And now-- 

 

“Hey.”

 

It’s only when Steve Rogers speaks that Bucky realizes he’s sitting alone. The chairs around him are empty, and Steve Rogers is kneeling down in front of him, hands on his knees, concern obviously etched across his face. 

 

“... fuck,” Bucky flushes bright as he realizes the rest of the meeting is gone, a _blur._ Whatever was said, he doesn’t remember it. All he knows is the image of his hands, twisting in his lap, fused into his vision. His head hurts, and there’s probably a visible crease on his furrowed brow. 

 

“Language,” Steve chides, but he’s smiling that same, gentle smile, and even though Bucky flushes brightly, because he just swore in front of a national hero, he doesn’t feel _that_ bad about it. 

 

“I didn’t mean to--” Bucky sighs, and then he cuts himself off. He shakes his head, finally untangles his hands to run his fingers through his hair, pushing messy bangs away. He knows how it looks, and really, he’d _hoped_ to at least  keep his shit together on a surface-level this meeting. He wonders if dissociating into a void is better or worse than outright _running._

 

“I know,” Steve says, simply. He’s watching Bucky with those goddamn bright eyes, way too _warm_ for someone who’s seen so goddamn much. Bucky is reminded, yet again, that this is a man who’s lost everything-- because he is, isn’t he? He knows he shouldn’t have read the articles, shouldn’t have looked at how every goddamn news outlet threw the Avengers under the bus, made them the scapegoat for the outright goddamn apocalypse. 

 

 _Especially_ after they’d treated Captain America like a damned criminal for all those years. 

 

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. _Definitely,_ it’s a coping mechanism, because Bucky’s suddenly full of emotion. The empty void is filled, with a whoosh and a burst of _feelings,_ by so many things. Anger. Indignance. Ferocity. And, god, above everything else-- he wants to _fix things._ He can’t fix anything, can’t make anything better, but-- 

 

“You wanna get a coffee?” Bucky asks suddenly. 

 

_Oh shit._

 

He’s just asked Steve goddamn Rogers on a _coffee date._ Bucky flushes even brighter, if that’s possible. He wants to sink into the floor, wants to disappear onto the spot, wants to dissociate back into his mind so deep that he _actually_ blinks out of existence. He could go join Becca on the other side, maybe; he wouldn’t have to be here, wouldn’t have to be outright rejected by the man he’s been jerking off to since he learned what his dick was, and-- 

 

“Bit late,” Steve replies, and Bucky opens his mouth to squeak out a frantic apology, but-- “But you know, I haven’t had dinner yet. Could go for a quick meal, if that’s okay?” 

 

_What._

 

“I… _yes?”_ Bucky sputters, a question more than a response. Inwardly, he’s cringing. He _knows_ how to talk to people, he really does. Did? And besides, it’s not much of anything. This is Captain America, a guy who’s known him for approximately a week, and on _both_ of their encounters, Bucky’s had total meltdowns. He probably just pities him. He probably just feels fucking awful because of reasons and baggage, and Bucky’s a pet project. Right? 

 

“Great. It’s a date. I’ll grab my stuff,” Steve says, and just for the faintest moment, there’s a hint of _hesitance,_ of something soft and shy creeping in, and-- oh fuck. 

 

Bucky isn’t sure if it’s panic or the actual frantic beating of his heart that’s making him feel weak, that’s making his vision blur just a little around the edges. _A date._ It’s simply a phrase, he knows; it’s nothing. Not everyone is a gay disaster the way Bucky Barnes is, but god, he’s willing to put his eggs in this basket, he’s willing to _try--_

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, immediately, because how the hell can he not, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be-- y’know. Right here, in this chair, trying not to have a meltdown. Imagine that.” 

 

Smooth, Barnes. _Smooth._

 

Steve laughs, though, and the sound, suddenly, is vibrant and beautiful. It fills the room, pushes all the panic and emptiness and solitude away, and Bucky can’t help it-- he’s smiling. God, he’s _smiling,_ because he’s captivated. This night is going to be a disaster, and he’ll probably never be able to come back, not after this, but at least he can check “a date with Captain America” off the bucket list after that.

 

And hey, small victories like this, they’re the only thing he’s got left at the end of the world.

 

“Be right back,” Steve says. He straightens and steps away, and Bucky begs to whatever god might actually exist up there-- even though he’s stopped believing a long time ago, even _before_ his entire family was erased in the blink of an eye-- that it’s worth it. That maybe, just _maybe,_ he can have a single good night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> being a nobody in a new fandom is weird, LOL. and pretending anything post infinity war exists is hard too. so thanks to everyone who left feedback and gave me kudos and SUBSCRIBED!!! ;o; i did not expect my shitty idea to get me anywhere, but here i am. 
> 
> i'm having a TON of fun writing this strange idea, so anyone who's here for the ride gets my eternal gratitude :D
> 
> i'm on twitter @thatdest ! come scream at me about steve rogers, i stan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where else is there to go, though?” Steve asks. “So… I came back, and I stay.” 
> 
> Bucky shrugs, and his reply slips out unbidden, something that he’s noticing just happens around Steve. 
> 
> “We could go forward,” he says. It’s a terrifying thought. Forward. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?

The good thing about having a panic attack in front of Steve Rogers - _twice -_ is that at least they’ve already crossed that hurdle. There’s none of the awkward, “so you gottta know, I’m _fucked up_ ” song and dance that Bucky’s used to playing. He had gone on his share of bad dates, after he’d managed to cobble together some semblance of a life, in the space in between. Before the world went to shit, but after _Bucky’s_ world exploded before his very eyes. And there had always, inevitably, been the moment when his date realizes what they’re getting themselves into, about just how much baggage he carries.

 

Bucky doesn’t blame anyone for ghosting. He wouldn’t want to deal with him, either. It helps, he supposes, that now everyone’s running from their trouble in some way.

 

Helps even more that Steve knows what he’s getting himself into.

 

But does _Bucky?_

 

He knows he’s in over his head. He knows that, as he pulls himself out of the sad little creaky chair and makes an attempt to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. How is _he,_ of all people, equipped to deal with a man who’s been through more than Bucky ever will see-- even without an arm, even with his entire family gone. 

  
Steve Rogers has had his life ripped away from him _how_ many times? At least as many as Bucky, and _fuck,_ that’s a heavy revelation, one that hangs in the empty room between them. That’s just scraping the bottom of the barrel that is ‘things Steve Rogers is probably fucked up over’ after all. 

 

Then again-- Bucky thinks back to when he first came back. When the whole world was treating him with kid gloves, when _everyone_ was just waiting for him to snap, to go off, to sink into the abyss. He’d wanted, more than anything, to just be… normal. For people to just treat him like a person. And maybe that’s what Steve wants, needs. Maybe-- 

 

“Ready?” Steve Rogers asks, reappearing in front of him, and Bucky damn near jumps. 

 

“Meltdown _almost_ averted,” he agrees, with just a moment’s hesitation, with just that split second to scramble together his composure. Bucky’s almost proud of himself - and then, Steve _laughs_ again, the sound bright and warm, and okay. Yeah. He’s proud that he managed to draw that outta Steve. Maybe he’s even got the tiniest bit of game. _Maybe._

 

“Almost, huh?” Steve smiles, looking at him with those _eyes._ “We’ll do better next time.” 

 

_Next time._

 

Bucky hopes he looks collected. He hopes that his heart trying to explode through his ribs isn’t evident in the way he almost misses a step. For someone who was a black ops sniper, he can be _hopelessly_ clumsy, and the awkward weightiness of his arm still throws him off balance sometimes. He’s a mess. He _wishes_ for a lot of things, and he shouldn’t, because this is Captain America, and Bucky Barnes is an absolute nightmare on the best of days. 

 

“Thinking about next time already?” Bucky teases, and he surprises himself yet again with how smoothly the words come out. “Better be payin’ then, I can barely afford rent.” 

 

It’s an exaggeration, but not by _much._ Government funds are drying up pretty rapidly - so many people lost their support networks, their families. Kids orphaned, elderly folks abandoned, stay-at-home parents suddenly without an income… Bucky’s pretty much waved goodbye to a lot of his disability and military pension. And it’s not like he’s rolling in the money, running a dog walking business. 

 

Steve frowns. “Shit. You okay? You need anything? Groceries, bills--”

 

“Steve,” Bucky groans, and he _hopes_ it’s okay, using the other man’s name like this, “it was a joke. I’m _joking.”_

 

A pause, and then, “oh.” Steve says, and his smile, this time, is rueful-- kinda sad. It makes Bucky’s stomach pitch to the floor, makes his heart do that awful thumping thing against his ribs again. “... sorry. I just-- I know a lot-- _most_ people-- are struggling, and…” 

 

He trails off. Inwardly, Bucky is smacking himself, for reminding Cap yet again of just how deep the ruin runs. There’s no escaping it. No wonder Bucky doesn’t date. No wonder everyone in this goddamn support group has a mental breakdown about the _concept_ of dating. Has anyone really left the past behind yet? 

 

When Captain America can’t come up with some rousing, motivational words, it must be bad. But then again, Bucky knew that. 

 

“I’m good. C’mon. Let’s get dinner,” Bucky says, and he’s the one taking the lead this time. Somehow, even though he can barely keep his own head on straight, it’s _easier_ when other people are involved. And that moment where the facade all came crumbling down? It reminds him again that Steve Rogers is just a man, under the mask. A _gorgeous_ man, but still: only human. 

 

Steve smiles gratefully, and it feels like some of the heaviness lifts from Bucky’s shoulders, as soon as they make their way out of the old VA building. Steve pauses to lock up - this late, it’s just their little group here, and they’re the last ones out - and the keys jingle in his hand before he pockets them again.

 

“What kinda food you like?” Bucky asks, once they’re making their way into the darkness. The summer heat is still lingering, late into the night, but in a way that isn’t _quite_ so oppressive. He’s grateful for the darkness, too - it masks Steve, standing next to him. Still, Bucky’s mind wanders - thinks of sweat beading at the small of Steve’s back, between his shoulder blades, making the fabric of his shirt cling… 

 

And, of course, he wonders what Steve looks like _without_ the shirt. 

 

Bucky damn near trips over his own two feet. He’s bad at this, _already._ He’ll get his crush under control, eventually, but this is still new, still overwhelming, because he doesn’t _do_ this. Not anymore. He doesn’t go on dates. He _definitely_ doesn’t usually hang around his childhood idols. 

 

“Thai’s my favourite,” Steve says back, instantly, “shit, I could go for some Thai right now, actually.” 

 

Bucky knew that, of course - Steve Rogers has, in fact, confirmed in an interview, before everything went to hell, before his fugitive years, that his favourite food is Thai food - but there’s something _exciting_ about hearing it directly from someone. It’s personal, and intimate, and he wants to… thank Steve Rogers, for revealing just a little detail about himself. 

 

“Waoh, Captain America swears?” Instead, naturally, that’s the reply that bursts out of Bucky’s dumb-ass mouth, his brain short-circuiting. 

 

If Steve thinks he’s dumb, he doesn’t say it. He tips his head, giving Bucky a once-over that makes a shiver run up his spine, all involuntary response and supercharged neurons firing. 

 

“I grew up in the 30s, Buck. You _really_ think I haven’t heard it all?” 

 

“Well, they _really_ used to portray you as the picture-perfect, pristine symbol of patriotism, y’know,” Bucky replies. He side-steps as the sidewalk narrows, and when their hips bump, he pointedly ignores the little spark of heat. God, it’s unfair, the things this man is already doing to him.

 

“Used to,” Steve replies, casually enough - and really, it’s probably Bucky’s imagination, the way the other man’s expression tightens, just for a moment. It sure as hell isn’t him inserting his foot into his giant, dumb mouth all over again. 

 

There’s a moment of silence, one where Bucky wonders if he should fucking say _something,_ anything, but then Steve is barreling forward, maybe a little awkward with the small talk, but god, it’s appreciated. “Hope you can handle spicy. This place _doesn’t_ mess around.” 

 

Bucky laughs, and it comes easily. It surprises him a little, just how easy it is to smile around Steve. “Steve, I can handle _anything_ you throw my way,” he says with a good amount of feigned confidence. Yeah, he’s flirting, and Bucky knows he shouldn’t, but-- how the hell is he supposed to resist?

 

“Yeah?” Steve says. The look he gives Bucky, in the darkness, makes a shiver run up his spine. He’s gotta be imagining Steve Rogers flirting back, but Bucky will gladly die with this fantasy burning on his mind. “That a challenge, Buck?”

 

“Might be,” Bucky replies, and it’s _easy._ He still knows he’s in over his head. He knows this won’t go anywhere, but god, maybe he will actually end up with a friend out of this. Talking to Steve is easy, and Bucky is good at talking, good at putting up the front, good at pretending that everything he’s been through hasn’t absolutely _wrecked_ him. He doesn’t find himself faking it with Steve, though.

 

“Well,” Steve shrugs casually, though Bucky can see, as they pass under a streetlamp, the way that the other man’s lips quirk into a smile again, “challenge accepted. You know, I’m real stubborn.” 

 

Bucky grins. Their hips bump again, and that jolt of _heat_ is easier to ignore, now, because he’s having fun. “Imagine that. Captain America, beating a crippled old vet.” He lifts his bad arm, wiggles his fingers, and gets one hell of a kick out of the rueful look on Steve’s face. Bucky’s self-deprecating humor can get the better of him sometimes, and he briefly considers if he should tone it down, if he should _apologize_ for taking it too far-- 

 

“Thought this was a _food_ challenge. We gettin’ physical now?” Steve says, though, and god, Bucky Barnes just might be _actually_ in love. He laughs, shakes his head and he swears, Steve is blushing as he watches him.

 

“Let’s see how the food goes, Rogers. Dunno if I can keep up with supersoldier stamina,” Bucky replies, lightly, because he’s _absolutely_ not going home with Steve Rogers. He’s not even going to start getting it in his head-- it’ll end badly. He’ll freak out, he’s not equipped to deal with the inevitable crash, and… god, this feels good. This feels _real,_ and Bucky isn’t about to let a one-night stand ruin things. (Assuming, of course, that he’s even reading the situation right.) 

 

“Knew you were all talk,” Steve replies.

 

_“Steve,”_ Bucky whines, and damnit, he knows he’s lost this one. But it’s hard to care, hard to be a sore loser, because despite _everything,_ despite the world being a fuckin’ mess all around them, it feels like his entire life has been leading up to this, to meeting Captain America and drawing those cute little smiles outta the guy.

 

\---

 

Bucky hates to admit that Steve was _right_ , but his tongue is on fucking fire. He’s going to hate himself tonight, when his stomach tries to burn its way out of his body, but he is _not_ giving the man the damn satisfaction.

 

“Steve,” he says, between frantic gulps of water, “I’m going to _die.”_

 

Steve looks nonplussed as he digs into the food. Bucky doesn’t even _know_ what the dish is, but there’s some kind of chilli pepper from hell in it. “I don’t think you’re gonna die, Buck.” 

 

Bucky is grateful that he ordered his own food, a simple pad thai, because he does _not_ feel like singeing the inside of his mouth any more. He gulps down more water - their server eyeing him with a look that absolutely screams _‘dumb white boy’_ \- and it helps. It makes his eyes stop watering, at least. 

 

“... I’m impressed,” Bucky confesses, after a moment, though. “Thought you’d be the kinda guy who’s afraid of exotic stuff. Y’know, growin’ up last century and all.” 

 

Steve laughs, and pauses to take a bite of his food. He doesn’t even wince, and Bucky wonders if it’s just the damn serum that makes him resistant to the spice. “It was still New York - pretty diverse. Wasn’t all _that_ bad. We only boiled _most_ things.” 

 

The response is wry-- and Bucky can’t help but feel a little twitch of curiosity. Sure, he’s read articles. He’s done his share of Cap fanboying. But… this is a real opportunity to actually _talk_ to Steve, to learn all the things that can’t translate through interviews and articles. But-- at the same time, he doesn’t want to pry. He doesn’t wanna be _that_ guy. 

 

Steve must see right through him - or, more realistically, Bucky is probably just shit at masking his feelings. He always has been. Because the other man smiles at him, something gentle and quiet, and it feels like a little glimpse into something private, something soft and vulnerable. “You can ask. I wouldn’t-- we wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t think I could trust you.” 

 

Bucky swallows heavily, and pretends that he’s real interested in staring down at his plate of food. “... was it hard? Adjusting, I mean. I-- I _swear_ I’m not creepy, Steve, but I’ve read articles, and just-- I dunno. You put up a good act, but…” 

 

“It was hard,” Steve says. He pushes his food around on his plate, too, brow furrowing a little as he contemplates what comes next. Bucky feels guilty, immediately - watching the way the crease in Steve’s forehead deepens, because that’s the last thing he wants. His flesh hand itches to reach across the table, to smooth out those deep lines and work all of Steve’s worries away. Realistically, he can’t do much, but something, _anything,_ it’s gotta be better than this, right? 

 

“For a while I was mad,” Steve continues. He shifts in his chair a little; Bucky leans forward, across the table, and he can’t help it. He’s drawn to Steve Rogers, magnetic and instant. They’re seated in the corner of the room, and the little hole-in-the-wall closes in half an hour. It’s just them and one other table on the other side of the room, and Bucky appreciates the privacy. It continues the illusion; it makes Bucky feel like the rest of the world isn’t quite so oppressive. 

 

“I was mad, too. When… I came back from overseas,” Bucky confesses. He glances down at his arm, the prosthetic one, and frowns. It’s not supposed to be about _him,_ but he wants Steve to _know,_ he isn’t alone, even if he feels like he is. Even if his situation is unique, even if _nobody_ else can relate to being thrown into a new world-- Bucky knows how it is, going off to war and coming back with everything different.

 

His friends - gone. His family - gone, _now,_ and at the time? When he’d come back? They might as well have been in another century, with how far Bucky had retreated into his own mind. 

 

“Yeah,” if Steve’s mad about his bad attempt at relating, he doesn’t voice it. He’s nodding, instead, pausing to take a big mouthful of food. Bucky watches Steve as he chews, and they’re both leaning forward again. The space between them narrows, just a sliver, and it’s enough to make Bucky shiver. He swears, the air feels _electric,_ that there’s a connection between them-- and it can’t just be his imagination, right? 

 

“Everything’s different,” Steve voices, and Bucky can’t help the small, sad smile that tugs at his lips. He _gets_ it. “I was… mad. And then-- lost, and just… depressed. I-- never wanted to become an Avenger, but suddenly, my _entire_ identity was Captain America. Anyone who knew me as anything else, as just Steve… they were all gone.” 

 

Bucky tries to imagine it-- coming back, _reintegrating,_ without Becca. His sole lifeline during that period. He swallows heavily, and god, there’s a lump in his throat he can’t quite dislodge. He reaches for his water, gulps some down. Doesn’t help.

 

“I might as well have come back a different person. My mom barely recognized me,” Bucky says, quietly, and he realizes, he hasn’t talked about _this_ with anyone since the apocalypse. He’d gotten into it with his therapist but-- now, the world has bigger issues than yet another traumatized war vet. 

 

Steve doesn’t reply, but those bright eyes are locked on him. The gaze doesn’t feel scrutinizing, or critical, doesn’t prickle any of Bucky’s usual anxiety. There’s a softness, an _understanding,_ and Bucky-- he never wants to talk about this, but his lips are moving, the words are coming out.

 

“Everyone expected _Bucky_ to come back, and I was just...  changed. I couldn’t go back to being who I used to be, and all that expectation…” 

 

Bucky shrugs. He looks down, pokes at his food without actually eating any of it. 

 

“You’re still Bucky,” Steve says, breaking the fragile silence that falls between them. “You’re still… _you._ Just, maybe, changed.” 

 

Bucky tips his head. He tastes blood, suddenly, and realizes he’s chewing at his lower lip -- a nervous gesture, because he doesn’t like talking about this. He likes talking about everyone else, about avoiding his _own_ problems. Easier that way. 

 

“At what point do I become someone _totally_ different, though?” Bucky asks. It’s a rhetorical question; he doesn’t expect an answer.

 

Steve meets his gaze, steady, unwavering, and so painfully honest that it makes his heart thump wildly in his chest again.

 

“Been wondering the same thing, myself. When I figure out the answer, I’ll let you know.” 

 

Bucky ponders that. His food, half-eaten between them, is starting to go cold, because talking to Steve is just that much more interesting. He leans forward again, eyes narrowed, propping his bad arm up on the table.

 

“Dunno about myself,” Bucky says slowly, “... but I think you’re not so different. Just… been through a lot, y’know?”

 

Steve somehow managed to polish his food off during the conversation, Bucky realizes, and the plate in front of the other man is empty now. Their eyes meet again, and there’s a silent conversation running between them. Bucky doesn’t _quite_ understand it yet - but there’s that undercurrent, something vague, all emotion and half-formed. It’s a strange sense of mutual camaraderie, tentative, fragile, but _there._

 

“You’ve been through a lot, too,” Steve replies. 

 

Bucky doesn’t want to _think_ about himself. He wants to point out that Steve Rogers is goddamn _Captain America,_ that he’s saved the world about a hundred times over from various threats. Bucky is just… broken, sad, pathetic James Buchanan Barnes. He’s killed people, yeah, and the stakes were never that high. He’s been chewed up and spit out by the system. But-- survivor’s guilt is all the same, isn’t it, regardless of the stakes?

 

“You still hungry?” Bucky asks, instead. It’s deflecting, and he knows it, but he nudges his plate forward.

 

Steve only hesitates for a moment. “You’re sure?” 

 

“ _One_ of us has to actually hit the gym to look like this,” Bucky replies - all charm, he hopes. 

 

And, okay. It’s _totally_ his imagination, the way Steve’s gaze shifts - the way those bright eyes drag over him, making him squirm and feel vulnerable, exposed, just for a moment. Bucky can’t be -- there’s no way, right? 

 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, lightly, as he digs into Bucky’s food, “I’m gonna be working this off for _days._ Worth it though.” 

 

And James Buchanan Barnes, of course, is fucking speechless, because as much as he wishes he still had game - the reality is, it comes in bursts, and the rest of the time, he’s absolutely blindsided by all of this. This can’t be his reality. This -- _Steve --_ seems like the best thing that’s happened to him in ages, and Bucky doesn’t know how to reconcile that. He doesn’t… 

 

“You’re a punk,” is what he settles on saying, finally, and Steve laughs, the sound bright and _happy._

 

\---

 

Their server lets them linger long past closing time, and it’s only when the floor is mopped and the till is balanced that they pack up and head out of the tiny little restaurant. Bucky feels a bit of guilt - he’s worked his share of shit service jobs, after all - but the woman waves at Steve and gives him a small smile as the door jingles behind them, and Steve waves farewell, with a quiet, “ _see you next time, May.”_

 

“Friend of yours?” Bucky asks, once they’re back outside. The temperature is still holding steady, warm despite the darkness, though still not _as warm_ as it used to be, back before all of this. 

 

Steve shoves his hands in his pocket and smiles, something soft and secretive. “Could say that. This place and I go way back.” 

 

“Yeah?” Bucky tips his head. He shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help it. Steve Rogers fascinates him, and every time he gives the tiniest insights into that life of his, Bucky wants _more._ He’s like a thirsty man in a desert, except - it’s just Steve Rogers he’s thirsting after. Figures. 

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Bucky asks, casual as he can.

 

“Not really,” Steve says. Then. “Can I walk you home?” 

 

“That Captain America’s way of saying he doesn’t think I can handle myself?” Bucky ignores the sting of rejection - and really, it’s not as hard as he thought it would be, because Steve’s asking to _walk him home._

 

“I’m not Captain America anymore,” Steve says mildly, “and I have _no_ doubts that anyone dumb enough to jump you in the night would get their ass handed to them.” 

 

“Good,” Bucky says with a flash of a grin. He pointedly ignores Steve’s other comment, too, because - shield or no shield, even without the costume and the cowl, Steve Rogers is still the goddamn embodiment of what America should be. So what, if he’s lost his way - the entire damn world has. 

 

He won’t voice _that._ It’s too… weird, too personal, too much. 

 

“So can I?” Steve presses.

 

_Why,_ is the first thought that comes to Bucky’s mind. 

 

“Partway?” is what he says. And that seems good enough. Steve tips his head again - god, he’s gorgeous, all lit up in the orange halo glow of the streetlights - and then nods. 

 

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees. 

 

This late at night, Bucky knows he’s shit company. He used to be a nightowl, once upon a time - and ideally, he still _would_ be. He’s never liked mornings. Before he shipped off overseas, he’d be up all night-- out with friends, laughing and partying, or just at home, in front of his laptop and all wrapped up in a blanket. 

 

Now, Bucky lives in a constant state of exhaustion. He falls asleep early and jolts awake in the middle of the night from nightmares. Or-- he can’t sleep, and lulls off into something lingering and uneasy in the early hours of the morning. It’s never anything peaceful. And today… it’s been a long day. 

 

If Steve minds, though, he doesn’t say it. The silence between them somehow isn’t awkward, either. It’s something familiar, something comfortable that they fall into easily. 

 

“You don’t live far from me,” Steve remarks, after a while, as Bucky leads the way back to his place. It breaks the silence, and it snaps Bucky, momentarily, out of the strange reverie he’s lost in - the strange place his mind settles in when he’s exhausted. 

 

“I’d say that’s surprising. But… not really, since we ended up at the same support group,” Bucky replies. He’s not awake enough to play it cool, clearly, and he almost cringes at his own words. 

 

Steve laughs, though. “I dunno. I-- didn’t move back here until _after_ I started the group. Brooklyn is-- it’s…” 

 

He trails off, and Bucky thinks he gets it. It’s too _familiar._ Brooklyn feels like the ghost of the past, so close to _home,_ and yet everything is different. Bucky himself can’t bear to go near his family home-- he still expects, after all this time, to see his mother out front, tending to the flower baskets that hang from the front porch. He still expects to see Becca leaning her whole body out the bay window in the front, waving frantically and giving him the courage to just _come inside._

 

“I know,” Bucky says softly. “It’s hard.” 

 

Steve nods, and there’s understanding there, too. They get it. They get each _other,_ and it feels like they’re having a whole different conversation, forged in subtext and shared glances and unspoken words. Bucky likes it. 

 

“Where else is there to go, though?” Steve asks. “So… I came back, and I stay.” 

 

Bucky shrugs, and his reply slips out unbidden, something that he’s noticing just _happens_ around Steve. 

 

“We could go forward,” he says. It’s a terrifying thought. _Forward._ Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?

 

Steve tips his head, holds Bucky’s gaze as they keep walking. “... guess so,” is all that he says. They fall back into silence, but it’s still comfortable, and Bucky lets his mind drift. He tips his head back, stares up at the sky - the stars are so _bright,_ these days, because even in the middle of the city, there’s so much less light pollution. It’s so different, and - there’s a heavy surge of guilt, because maybe that particular change isn’t so bad. 

 

He’s always loved stargazing. It takes Bucky back - to his childhood, to staring up at the night sky with Becca, on their family trips upstate. It takes him back to stealth missions during his time in the army, in the middle of the night, the sky so fucking vast and bright and beautiful even in the middle of hell. And finally - his path, meandering and offbeat and imperfect in every single way, it takes him here. Walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Rogers, close enough that he could reach out and _touch_ him-- 

 

“This is me,” Steve says, suddenly, and Bucky’s grounded back in the present again. They’re standing in front of a plain brownstone. Bucky finds himself quietly memorizing the address, because - well, why not? 

 

“Right,” Bucky says. He shoves his hands in his pocket, slouches back a little. “... thanks for dinner, Steve. I-- this was nice. This was good.” 

 

Bucky’s game is so far gone, it might have traveled back in time and snapped out of existence with the rest of the world. 

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, a little breathless, soft and quiet. “... you sure you’re okay? Getting home from here?” 

 

Bucky nods. “I’m like three blocks away, Steve, I-- guess we’re closer than we expected.” 

 

It’s warm and exhilarating, knowing that Steve Rogers is a stone’s throw away. Part of Bucky desperately wants the other man to invite him in. The rest of him? Wants to turn and _run._ Because this is too much, this is too fast, Bucky doesn’t make _friends,_ let alone-- whatever this connection between them is. It just doesn’t happen to him.

 

“I’ll see you next week?” Steve asks. The invitation to come inside doesn’t follow, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’s relieved or upset. Both, maybe.

 

_It’s for the best._

 

“I’ll see you next week,” Bucky agrees. Steve lingers, just for a moment, leans in so that their hips nudge, and then -- he’s pulling back. He’s turning, and the sound of his keys jingling again as he nudges them into the old-fashioned lock on the front door breaks through the silence. 

 

“... bye, Buck,” Steve says, in the doorway.

 

Bucky lifts his bad hand and waves awkwardly, the metal glinting in the streetlight, “Night, Stevie,” he says, the nickname coming out easily. He _could_ ask Steve for his phone number. He _could_ ask him out again. The Fourth is coming up -- this weekend -- and he could use some company, but-- 

 

Instead, Bucky turns and makes the trek back home to his own place. Waffles is waiting at the door, whining for her evening meal, because he’s _late._ And then, when Bucky’s finally settled back into his own apartment, surrounded by shabby familiarity, he finally lets it all out. The exhaustion sinks in, deep and clawing, and he collapses back against the kitchen wall, slides down to sit on the floor, a hand extended for the dog to come nudge her nose into.

 

“... Captain America is just as fucked up as I am,” he says aloud to Waffles, and Bucky feels awful, speaking the words into existence, but he knows, soul-deep and painfully honest, that it’s the _truth._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who commented, dropped kudos, and SUBSCRIBED!!! ;3; i appreciate you so much!   
> this fic is... a slowburn, and it's gonna be one hell of a slowburn, but steeb and bork are finally talking at least! i love broken steve. i love this world that i get to play with. i hope that the journey is as fun to read as it is to write. <3  
> you can come scream with me on twitter @thatdest !


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